I caught my husband whispering "it's our baby" to his mistress on Christmas Eve—then her husband handed me $200,000 to stay married.

The Northridge Country Club was a cathedral of old money. High vaulted ceilings supported massive crystal chandeliers, while floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of snow-dusted golf greens.

Mark guided me through the grand foyer with a firm hand on the small of my back. He was sweating despite the chill, his collar slightly too tight, his eyes darting frantically through the crowd of well-heeled guests sipping champagne.

Then he saw her.

Jessica Vance stood by the massive stone fireplace. She was breathtaking in an icy, calculated way—tall, slender, wearing a tailored cream knit dress that subtly concealed any hint of an early pregnancy. Her blonde hair fell in immaculate waves, and diamonds glinted at her ears.

Standing beside her was Julian. He wore a navy bespoke suit, holding a scotch glass with relaxed authority.

When Julian’s gaze swept across the room and met mine, not a single muscle in his face betrayed that we had sat together in the freezing dark eight hours earlier.

"Mark! Anna! You made it," Julian’s voice boomed warmly across the circle of associates, commanding the room’s attention. He stepped forward, offering Mark a firm handshake. "Glad you braved the snow."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Julian," Mark said, puffing out his chest, flattered beyond reason.

Jessica turned, her eyes landing on Mark with a fleeting, possessive spark, before shifting to me. Her gaze was sharp, dissecting my emerald dress, my pearl earrings, my neat updo. In her mind, I was the drab suburban obstacle she was about to sweep aside.

"Anna, darling," Jessica purred, stepping forward to press her cheek against mine in a fake socialite embrace. The scent of jasmine was overpowering. "You look... so sensible. Doesn't she, Mark?"

"She looks lovely," Julian interjected smoothly before Mark could stumble over a response. Julian turned to me, his cold blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the surrounding executives look away. "In fact, Mrs. Whitmore possesses the kind of elegance that cannot be bought in a boutique. Wouldn't you agree, Jessica?"

Jessica’s smile froze at the edges. She wasn't used to Julian complimenting other women—especially not the wife of the man she was sleeping with.

"Of course," Jessica said stiffly, clutching her champagne flute.

"Excuse us for a moment," Julian said, gesturing toward a private alcove near the bar. "Mark, walk with me to meet the regional director. The ladies can enjoy the dessert table."

Mark nodded eagerly, following Julian like a trained hound.

As they walked away, Julian’s left hand casually brushed the marble console table behind him. He left behind a small, silver valet card. As I stepped toward the champagne fountain, I let my evening clutch sweep across the marble, scooping the card into my bag.